CIHM 
Microfiche 
Series 
(Monographs) 


ICMH 

Collection  de 
microfiches 
(monographles) 


I 


Canadian  institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions /Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiq 


ues 


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Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best  original 
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Q 


Coloured  covers  / 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I   Covers  damaged  / 


Couverture  endommag^e 


□   Covers  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Couverture  restaur^e  et/ou  peliicul^e 

I I   Cover  title  missing  /  Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

I I   Coloured  maps  /  Cartes  g6ographiques  en  couleur 

ry\    Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)  / 


Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations  / 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


n 


D 


D 


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Ce  document  est  fflm4  au  taux  de  rMuetion  indique  ci-dassous. 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire  qu'il  lui  a 
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plaire qui  sont  peut-6tre  uniques  du  point  de  vue  bibli- 
ographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier  une  image  reproduite, 
ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une  modification  dans  la  m6tho- 
de  normale  de  filmage  sont  indiqu6s  ci-dessous. 

I I   Coloured  pages  /  Pages  de  couleur 

I I   Pages  damaged  /  Pages  endommag6es 


n 


Pages  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Pages  restaurdes  et/ou  pellicul^es 


r^  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed  / 
I— -J    Pages  d6color6es,  tachetees  ou  piqu6es 

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I      I   Quality  of  print  varies  / 


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possible. 


lOx 

14x 

18x 

22x 

26x 

30x 

s{ 

12x 

16x 

20x 

24x 

28x 

32x 


■y.*m-^^m^ 


■3';?;v- -^-fiir 


Th«  copy  filmed  h«r«  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  tha  ganarosity  of: 

University  of  Calgary 


L'axamplaira  filmi  fut  raproduit  grica  A  la 
g^nirositi  da: 

University  of  Calgary 


Tha  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  eontcact  specifications. 


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sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  Illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  M  raproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin.  compta  tsnu  de  la  condition  at 
da  la  nettet*  de  I'exemplaira  filma,  at  en 
conformitA  avec  lee  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Lee  exempiairea  originaux  dont  la  couvarture  en 
papier  est  imprimie  sont  filmis  en  commencant 
par  le  premier  plat  at  an  terminant  soit  par  la 
derniAre  page  qui  comporte  une  ampreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration.  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
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premiere  page  qui  comporte  una  ampreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  at  an  terminant  par 
la  derniAre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shell  contain  tha  symbol  — ^  Imeening  'CON- 
TINUED "),  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  appliaa. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hend  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Un  des  symboles  suivanta  apparaftra  sur  la 
darni^re  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  salon  le 
cas:  le  symbols  — »>  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
film«8  i  des  taux  de  riduction  diffArents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichA,  il  est  filmA  d  partir 
de  Tangle  supArieur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  9n  prenant  le  nombre 
d'imagea  n^casaaira.  Lea  diagrammes  suivanta 
illustrent  la  mAthode. 


1 

2 

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SAPPHO ! 


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SAPPHO 


ONE   HUNDRED 

LTRICS 

By 

Bliss  Carman 

IFith  an  Introduction  by 
CHARLES  G.D.ROBERTS 


Boston 
L.  C.  Page  and  Company 


MDCCCCIIII 


C^Td5!£S:^.^"ih?j  fr.^  .^p.  ^crjFpjgi^^-^t^-^  ji  ^  t^  i^  .•^J  >  ^:  5 


'''!;>"Vir^'^,?-  ■Ji^-yLjnji^f^,-,,..^.? 


B8»*f 


Copyright,  1903,  by 
L.  C.  Pa^e  &  Company  (Inc.) 


^\P  this  edition^  two  hundred  copies  were  printed, 
LX  from  type  afterwards  distributed,  by  the  ©c 
Vinne  Press  on  English  hand-made  paper  in  Oc- 
tober, M<DCCCCI1I. 


No. 


THE  ^OBT^Y   OF   S/J^^HO 

'BY  CHj^^RLBS   G.  ®.  •■RO'BE'RTS 

/'F  all  the  poets  and  all  the  lovers  of  poetry 
should  be  asked  to  name  the  most  precious  of 
.we  priceless  things  which  time  has  wrung  in 
tribute  from  the  triumphs  of  human  genius,  the  answer 
which  would  rush  to  every  tongue  would  be  "  The 
Lost  ^oems  of  Sappho. "     These  we  know  to  have 
been  jewels  of  a  radiance  so  imperishable  that  the 
broken   gleams  of  them    still  dazzle  men's    eyes, 
whether  shining  from  the  two  small  brilliants  and  the 
handful  of  star-dust  which  alone  remain  to  us,  or  re- 
flected merely  from  the  adoration  of  those  poets  of 
old  time  who  were  so  fortunate  as  to  witness  their 
full  glory. 

For  about  two  thousand  five  hundred  years  Sappho 
has  held  her  place  as  not  only  the  supreme  poet 
of  her  sex,  but  the  chief  lyrist  of  all  lyrists.  Every 
one  who  reads  acknowledges  her  fame,  concedes  her 
supremacy  ;    but  to  all  except  poets  and  Hellenists 


INT^Oq)UCTION 


her  name  is  a  vague  and  uncomprehended  splendour, 
rising  secure  above  a  persistent  mist  of  misconcep- 
tion. In  spite  of  all  that  is  in  these  days  being 
written  about  Sappho,  it  is  perhaps  not  out  of  place 
now  to  inquire,  in  a  few  words,  into  the  substance  of 
this  supremacy  which  towers  so  unassailably  secure 
from  what  appear  to  be  such  shadowy  foundations. 

First,  we  have  the  witness  of  her  contemporaries. 
Sappho  was  at  the  height  of  her  career  about  six 
centuries  before  Christ,  at  a  period  when  lyric  poetry 
was  peculiarly  esteemed  and  cultivated  at  the  centres 
of  Greek  life.  Among  the  /Eolic  peoples  of  the 
Isles,  in  particular,  it  had  been  carried  to  a  high 
pitch  of  perfection,  and  its  forms  had  become  the 
subject  of  assiduous  study.  Its  technique  was  exact, 
complex,  extremely  elaborate,  minutely  regulated;  yet 
the  essential  fires  of  sincerity,  spontaneity,  imagina- 
tion, and  passion  were  flaming  with  undiminished 
heat  behind  the  fixed  forms  and  restricted  measures. 
The  very  metropolis  of  this  lyric  realm  was  Mitylene 
of  Lesbos,  where,  amid  the  myrtle  groves  and  temples, 
the  sunlit  silver  of  the  fountains,  the  hyacinth  gardens 
by  a  soft  blue  sea,  beauty  and  Love  in  their  young 


^BfiS 


INT^0<DUCTI 


O     N 


warmth  could  fuse  the  most  rigid  forms  to  fluency. 
Here  Sappho  was  the  acknowledged  queen  of  song- 
revered,  studied,  imitated,  served,  adored  by  a  little 
court  of  attendants  and  df-sciples,  loved  and  hymned 
by  /Ilcceus,   and  acclaimed  by  her  fellowcraftsmen 
throughout  Greece  as  the  wonder  of  her  age.      That 
all  the  tributes  of  her  contemporaries  show  reverence 
not  less  for  her  personality  than  for  her  genius  is 
sufficient  answer  tr  the  calumnies  with  which  the 
ribald  festers  of  that  later  period,  the  corrupt  and 
shameless  writers  of  .Athenian  comedy,  strove  to 
defile  her  fame.      It  is  sufficient,  also,  to  warrant 
our  regarding  the  picturesque  but  scarcely  dignified 
story  of  her  vain  pursuit  of  ^haon  and  her  frenzied 
leap  from  the  Cliff  of  Leu^as  as  nothing  more  than 
a  poetic  myth,  reminiscent,  perhaps,  of  the  myth  of 
yjphrodite    and    /idonis~who    is,    indeed,    called 
"Phaon  in  some  versions.      The  story  is  further  dis- 
credited  by  the  fact  that  we  find  no  mention  of  it  in 
Greek  literature —  even  among  those  /ittic  comedians 
who  would  have  clutched  at  it  so  eagerly  and  given 
it  so  gross  a  turn  — till  a  date  more  than  two  hun- 
dred  years  after  Sappho's  death.      It  is  a  myth  which 


INT^RO^DUCTION 


has  begotten  some  exquisite  literature,  both  in  prose 
and  verse,  from  Ovid's  famous  epistle  to  Addison's 
gracious  fantasy  and  some  impassioned  and  imper- 
ishable dithyrambs  of  Mr.  Swinburne  /  but  one  need 
not  accept  the  story  as  fact  in  order  to  appreciate  the 
beauties  which  flowered  out  from  its  coloured  unreality. 
The  applause  of  contemporaries,  however,  is  not 
always  justified  by  the  verdict  of  after-times,  and  does 
not  always  secure  an  immortality  of  renown.  The 
fame  of  Sappho  has  a  more  stable  basis.  Her  work 
was  in  the  world's  possession  for  not  far  short  of 
a  thousan'i  years  —  a  thousand  years  of  changing 
tastes,  searching  criticism,  and  familiar  use.  It  had 
to  endure  the  wear  and  tear  of  quotation,  the  com- 
monizing  touch  of  the  school  and  the  market-place. 
/Jnd  under  this  test  its  glory  grew  ever  more  and 
more  conspicuous.  Through  those  thousand  years 
poets  and  critics  vied  with  one  another  in  proclaim- 
ing her  verse  the  one  unmatched  exemplar  of  lyric 
art.  Such  testimony,  aven  though  not  a  single  frag- 
ment remained  to  us  from  which  to  judge  her  poetry 
for  ourselves,  might  well  convince  us  that  the  suprem- 
acy acknowledged  by  t.'.ose  who  knew  all  the  triumpus 


INTq^Oq)ucr/ 


O     N 


>e 


of  the  genius  of  old  Greece  was  beyond  the  assault 
of  any  modern  rival.     We  might  safely  acce/  t  tl 
sustained  judgment  of  a  thousand  years  of  Greece. 

Fortunately  for  us,  however,  two  small  but  incom- 
parable odes  and  a  few  scintillating  fragments  have 
survived,  quoted  and  handed  down  in  the  eulogies  of 
critics  and  expositors.     In  these  the  wisest  minds, 
the  greatest  poets,  and  the  most  inspired  teachers  of 
modern  days  have  found  justification  for  the  unani- 
mous verdict  of  antiquity.      The  tributes  of  /Iddison, 
Tennyson,  and  others,  the  throbbing  paraphrases  and 
ecstatic  interpretations  of  Swinburne,  are  too  well 
known  to  call  for  special  comment  in  this  brief  note; 
but  the  concise  summing  up  of  her  genius  by  Mr. 
Watts-<Dunton  in  his  rc.narkable  essay  on  poetry  is 
so  convincing  and  illuminating  that  it  seems  to  de- 
mand quotation  here :    *'  Never  before  these  songs 
were  sung,  and  never  since,  did  the  human  soul,  in 
the  grip  of  a  fiery  passion,  utter  a  cry  like  hers;  and, 
from  the  executive  point  of  view,  in  directness,  in 
lucidity,   in    thht   high,   imperious    verbal   economy 
which  only  nature  can  teach  the  artist,  she  has  no 
equal,  and  /  .:,e  worthy  to  take  the  place  of  second." 


INT'l^O^UCTlON 


The  poems  of  Sappho  so  mysteriously  lost  to  us 
seem  to  have  consisted  of  at  least  nine  hooks  of 
odes,  together  with  epitbalamia,  epigrams,  elegies, 
and  monodies.  Of  the  several  theories  which  have 
been  advanced  to  account  for  their  disaroearance, 
the  most  plausible  seems  to  be  that  which  represents 
them  as  having  been  burned  at  Byzantium  in  the  year 
380  /inno  'Domini,  by  command  of  Grsgory  Nazian- 
zen,  in  order  that  his  own  poems  might  be  studied  in 
their  stead  and  the  morals  of  the  people  thereby  im- 
proved. Of  the  efficacy  of  this  act  no  means  of 
judging  has  come  down  to  us. 

In  recent  years  there  has  arisen  a  great  body  of 
literature  upon  the  subject  of  Sappho,  most  of  it  the 
abstruse  work  of  scholars  writing  for  scholars.  'But 
the  gist  of  it  all,  together  with  the  minutest  sur- 
viving fragment  of  her  verse,  has  been  made  available 
to  the  general  reader  in  English  by  Mr.  Henry  T. 
Wharton,  in  whose  altogether  admirable  little  vol- 
ume we  find  all  that  is  known  and  the  most  apposite 
of  all  that  has  been  said  up  to  the  present  day  about 

"  Love's  priestess,  mad  with  pain  and  joy  of  song, 
Song's  priestess,  mad  with  joy  and  pain  of  love" 


INT^J^Oq)UCTlON 


Perhaps  the  most  perilous  and  the  most  alluring 
venture    in  the  whole  field  of  poetrt;  is  that  which 
Mr.  Carman  has  undertaken  in  attempting  to  give  us 
in    English  verse  those  lost  poems    of  Sappho   of 
which  fragments  have  survived.     The  task  is  obvi- 
ously not  one  of  translation  or  of  paraphrasing,  but 
of  imaginative  and,  at  the  same   time,  interpretive 
construction.     It  is  as  if  a  sculptor  of  to-day  were 
to  set  himself,  with  reverence,   and  trained  crafts- 
manship,  and  studious  familiarity   with  the  spirit, 
technique,  and  atmosphere  of  his  subject,  to  restore 
some  statues  of  ^Polyclitus  or  Praxiteles  of  which 
he  had  but  a  broken  arm,  a  foot,  a  knee,  a  finger 
upon  which  to  build.     Mr.  Carman's  method,  aprur- 
ently,  has  been  to  imagine  each  lost  lyric  as  discov- 
ered,  and  then   to  translate  it;  for  the  indefinable 
flavor  of  the  translation  is  maintained  throughout, 
though  accompanied  by  the  fluidity  and  freedom  of 
purely  original  work. 


xi 


:m  ^^■■•rjsi: 


Now  to  plca.,e  my  little  friend 
I  must  make  these  sontis  nf  spring, 
With  the  soft  south-west  wind        'hem 
/Jnd  the  marsh  notes  of  'he  frogs. 

I  must  take  a  gold-bound  pipe, 
■^nd  outmatch  the  bubbling  call 
From  the  beechwoods  in  the  sunlight. 
From  the  meadows  in  the  rain. 


■^i^L 


r«f''s?fc«^; 


CONTENT 


I 

II 
III 

IV 
V 
VI 
VII 
VIII 
IX 
X 
XI 
XII 
Xlli 
XIV 
XV 
XVI 
XVII 
XVIII 
XIX 


New  to  please  my  little  friend 
Cyprus,  Paphos,  or  Panormus     . 
What  shall  we  do.  Cythcrea  ? 
Power  and  beauty  and  knowlcdj^e 
O  Pan  of  the  evergreen  forest 

O  Aphrodite 

Peer  of  the  ^ods  he  seems 
The  Cyprian  came  to  thy  cradle 
Aphrodite  of  the  foam 
Nay,  but  always  and  forever  . 

Let  there  be  /garlands,  Dicn 

When  the  Cretan  maidens. 

In  a  dream  I  spoke  with  the  Cyprus-born 

Sleep  thou  in  the  bosom 

Hesperus,  bringing  together 

In  the  grey  olive  grove  a  small  brown  bird 

In  the  apple  boughs  the  coolness 

Pale  rose  leaves  have  fallen 

The  courtyard  of  her  house  is  wide 

There  is  a  medlar-tree 


XIII 

I 

2 
3 
4 
6 
8 
lo 
12 
13 
I'l 
I-) 
16 
17 
IK 
19 
20 
21 
22 
23 


~i^^Tmz-A:^Am  ^--i'  ^  ;7'Ar  1.75^5-"^  ^Tii"^:w'^^'tiVKi»»i5a(Bar3 


CONTENTS 


XX   I  behold  Arcturus  ^oin^  westward 
XXI   Softly  the  first  step  of  twilight 
XXII   Once  you  lay  upon  my  bosom 

XXIII  I  loved  thee,  Atthis,  in  the  long  ago 

XXIV  I  shall  be  ever  maiden  .... 

XXV  It  was  summer  when  I  found  you 
XXVI    1  recall  thy  white  gown,  cinctured 

XXVII   Lover,  art  thou  of  a  surety 
XXVIII   With  your  head  thrown  backward 
XXIX  Ah,  what  am  I  but  a  torrent    .      . 
XXX   Love  shakes  my  soul,  like  a  mountain 

wind        

XXXI   Love,  let  the  wind  cry    .... 
XXXII    Heart  of  mine,  if  all  the  altars 

XXXIII  Never  yet,  love,  in  earth's  lifetime 

XXXIV  "Who  was  Atthis?"  men  shall  ask 
XXXV  When  the  great  pink  mallow   .     . 

XXXVI   When  I  pass  thy  door  at  night     . 
XXXVII   Well  I  found  you  in  the  twilit  garden 
XXXVIIl  Will  not  men  remember  us 
XXXIX   I  grow  weary  of  the  foreign  cities 


24 

25 

26 

27 

28 

29 

30 

31 

32 

33 

34 
35 
37 
39 
40 
41 
43 
44 
45 
46 


CONTENTS 


XL  Ah,  what  detains  thee,  Phaon 
XLI    Phaon,  O  my  lover 
XLII   O  heart  of  insatiable  longing 
XLIIl   Surely  somehow,  in  some  measure 
XLIV  O  but  my  delicate  lover 
XLV  Softer  than  the  hill  fog  to  the  forest 

XLVI    I  seek  and  desire 

XLVll   Like  torn  sea-kelp  m  the  drift 
XLVlii   Fine  woven  purple  linen 
XLIX  When  I  am  home  from  travel 
L  When  I  behold  the  pharos  shine 

LI   Is  the  day  long 

LII   Lo,  on  the  distance  a  dark  blue  ravine 
LlII  Art  thou  the  topmost  apple 
LIV   How  soon  will   all  my  lovely   days  be 

over 

LV  Soul  of  sorrow,  why  this  weeping  ? 
LVl   It  never  can  be  mine 
LVll  Others  shall  behold  the  sun  . 
LVIII   Let  thy  strong  spirit  never  fear 
LIX  Will  none  say  of  Sappho 


47 

48 

50 

51 

52 

53 

54 

55 

56 

57 

58 

59 

61 

64 

65 
66 
67 
68 
69 
70 


t 


CON     TENTS 

LX  When  I  have  departed 71 

LXI   There  is  no  more  to  say  now  thou  art 

still  • 72 

LXI  I    Play  up,  play  up  thy  silver  flute     .      .  73 

LXIII   A  beautiful  child  is  mine        ....  74 

LXIV  Ah,  but  now  henceforth 75 

LXV  Softly   the  wind   moves    through    the 

radiant  morning 75 

LXVl   What  the  west  wind  whispers    ...  77 

LXVII   Indoors  the  fire  is  kindled     .     .     .     .  79 
LXVIII  You  ask  how  love  can  keep  the  mortal 

soul 80 

LXIX   Like  a  tall  forest  were  their  spears      .  82 

LXX   My  lover  smiled,  "O  friend,  ask  not  .  83 

LXXI  Ye  who  have  the  stable  world  ...  84 

LXXll    I  heard  the  gods  reply 85 

LXXIII  The  sun  on  the  tide,  the  peach  on  the 

bough         86 

LXXIV   If  death  be  good 87 

LXXV  Tell  me  what  this  life  means     ...  88 

LXXVI   Ye  have  heai     how  Marsyas     ...  89 

xviii 


CONTENTS 


LXXVII 

Lxxvm 

LXXIX 

LXXX 

LXXXI 

Lxxxn 


LXXXIII 
LXXXIV 
LXXXV 

LXXXVI 
LXXXVII 

LXXXVIII 

LXXXIX 
XC 

XCI 
XCII 


Hour  by  hour  I  sit        .... 

Once  in  the  shining  street 

How  strange  is  love,  O  my  lover 

How  to  say  I  love  you 

Hark,  love,  to  the  tambourines  . 

Over  the  roofs  the  honey-coloured 

moon 

I     the  quiet  garden  world 

Soft  was  the  wind  in  the  beech-trees 

Have  ye  heard  the  news  of  Sappho's 

garden         

Love  is  so  strong  a  thing 
Hadst  thou  with  all  thy   loveliness 
been  true jqj 

As    on    a    morn    a   traveller   might 

^'^erge ,03 

Where  shall  I  look  for  thee  .     .      .105 
O  sad,  sad  face  and  saddest  eyes  that 

^''^' .07 

Why  have  the  gods  in  derision  .     .    109 
Like  a  red  lily  in  the  meadow  grasses    I  I  I 


90 
91 
92 
93 

94 

95 
96 
97 

9S 
lOI 


I". 


)'  i 


CONTENTS 


XCIll  When  in  the  spring  the  swallows  all 

return 112 

XCIV  Cold  is  the  wind  where  Daphne  sleeps   1 1 3 
XCV  Hark,  where  Poseidon's     .     .     .     .    II4 
XCVI   Hark,  my  lover,  it  is  sprinjj!    .      .      .116 
XCVII  When  the  early  soft  spring  wind  comes 

blowing 119 

XCVIII   I   am   more  tremulous  than   shaken 

reeds 121 

XCIX  Over  the  wheat  field 122 

G  Once  more  the  rain  on  ttie  mountain   1 24 


SAPPHO 


■  "a 


m 


t*  v^ 


/CYPRUS,  Paphos,  or  Panornus 
V>    May  detain  thee  with  their  splendour 
Of  oblations  on  thine  altars, 
O  imperial  Aphrodite. 


X/'ET  do  thou  regard,  with   pity 

-I       For  a  nameless  child  of  passion, 
This  small  unfrequented  valley 
By  the  sea,  O  sea-born  mother. 


a 


m 


II 


WHaT  shall  we  do,  Cytherca  ? 
Lovely  Adonis  is  dyin^. 
Ah,  but  we  mourn  hi.nl 

AA/ILL  he  return  when  the  Autumn 

V  V      Purples  the  earth,  and  the  sunlight 
Sleeps  in  the  vineyard  ? 

\A  /ILL  he  return  when  the  Winter 

V  V      Huddles  the  sheep,  and  Orion 
Goes  to  his  hunting? 

Ah,  for  thy  beauty,   Adonis, 
^^  With  the  soft  spring  and  the  south  wind, 
Love  and  desire! 


11, 


.V.:^-\-»..?    r;T     ,.\.. 


Ill 


\:A 


pOWER  and  beauty  and  knowled^e,- 
1        Pan,  Aphrodite,  or  Hermes,— 

Whom  shall  we  life-loving  mortals 

Serve  and  be  happy  ? 


k 


I 


TO,  now  your  garlanded  altars, 
1-'   Are  they  not  goodly  with  flowers? 
Have  ye  not  honour  and  pleasure 
In  lovely  Lesbop  ? 

WILL  ye  not,  therefore,  a  little 
Hearten,  impel,  and  inspire 
One  who  adores,  with  a  favour 
Threefold  in  wonder? 


i). 


^ 
3 


IV 


/^    Pan  of  the  evergreen  forest, 
V_/    Protector  of  herds  in  the  meadows, 
Helper  of  men  at  their  toiling,— 
Tillage  and  harvest  and  herding,— 
How  many  times  to  frail  mortals 
Hast  thou  not  hearkened  ! 

\JOW  even   I   come  before  thee 

1  N    With  oil  and  honey  and  wheat  bread, 

Praying  for  strength  and  fulfilment 

Of  human  longing,  with  purpose 

Ever  to  keep  thy  great  worship 

Pure  and  undarkened. 

II 
/^^    Hermes,  master  of  knowledge, 
^^-^    Measure  and  number  and  rhythm. 

Worker  of  wonders  in  metal, 

Moulder  of  malleable  music. 

So  often  the  giver  of  secret 

Learning  to  mortals! 


^r^' 


'il 


Now  even   I,  a  fond  woman, 
Frail  and  of  small   underslandmg, 
Yet  with  unslakable  yearning 
Greatly  desiring  wisdom, 
Come  to  the  threshold  of  reason 
And  the  bright  portals, 
111 
And  thou,  sea-born  Aphrodite, 
■*    »■    In  whose  beneficent  keeping 
Earth  with  her  infinite  beauty, 
Colour  and  fashion  and  fragrance. 
Glows  like  a  flower  with  fervour 
Where  woods  are  vernal! 


'T*OUCH   with  thy  lips  and  enkindle 

1      This  moon-white  delicate  body. 
Drench  with  the  dew  of  enchantment 
This  mortal  one,  that  I  also 
Grow  to  the  measure  of  beauty 
Fleet  yet  eternal. 

5 


1 


i 


^ 
3 


^'mi 


/^~\   Aphrodite, 

^^  God-born  and  deathless, 
Break  not  my  spirit 
With  bitter  anguish, 
Thou  wilful  empress  I 
'   pray  thee,   hither  I 

As  once  aforetime 
^  Well  thou  didst  hearken 
To  my  voice  far  off,— - 
Listen,  and  leaving 
Thy  father's  golden 
House  in  yoked  chariot, 

/^OME,  thy  fleet  sparrows 

^^   Beating  the  mid-air 

Over  the  dark  earth. 

Suddenly  near  me, 

Smiling,  immortal. 

Thy   bright  regard  asked, 


P 


1  .♦  > 


WHAT  hod  befallen.— 
Why   I  hnd  called  thee,— 
What   my  mad  heart  then 
Most  was  desiring. 
"What  fair  thing  wouldst  thou 
Lure  now  to  love  thee  ? 

"  VA/'^O  wrongs  thee,  Sappho? 
V  V      If  now  she  flies  thee, 
Soon  shall  she  follow;  — 
Scorning  thy  gifts  now, 

Soon  be  the  giver; 

And  a  loth  loved  one 


I 


i  . 


SOON  be  the  lover." 
So  even  now,  too, 
Come  and  release  me 
From  mordant  love  pain, 
And  all  my  heart's  will 
Help  me  accomplish! 


nhu^.'. 


.c^^mk^ 


:JlSt^M(li^^'>^yl 


.^■*j 


VI 


pEER  of  the  ^ods  he  seems, 
*        Who  in   thy  presence 

Sits  and  hears  close  to  him 

Thy  silver  speech-tones 

And   lovely  laughter. 

AH,   but  the  heart  flutters 
-'V   Under  my  bosom, 
When   I   behold  thee 
Even  a  moment; 
Utterance  leaves  me; 

MY  tongue  is  useless; 
A  subtle  fire 
Runs  through   my   body; 
My  eyes  are  sightless, 
And  my  ears  ringing; 


i^Jsi^S^  y^< 


V  :«!lt'; 


^^w^^\Mrw^ 


»f-'- 


I    flush   witi    fever, 
And  a  str  -  <,,  'rcn-Min,, 
Lays  hold  upon  me; 
Paler  than  grass  am   I, 
Half  dead  for  madness. 


'ii 


YET   must   I,  greatly 
Daring,  adore  thee, 
As  the  adventurous 
Sailor  makes  seaward 
For  the  lost  sky-line 

AND  undiscovered 
^    Fabulous  islands, 
Drawn  by  the  lure  of 
Beauty  and  summer 
And  the  sea's  secret. 


'P 


( 


■9" 


t  i 


T^'£..fty'«a«M^ 


VII 


'T'HE  Cyprian  came  to  thy  cradle. 
When  thou  wast  little  and  small 
And  said  to  the  nurse  who  rocked  thee 
"f^ear  not  thou  for  the  child: 

"CHE  shall   be  kindly  favoured, 
^   And  fair  and  fashioned  well, 
As  befits  the   Lesbian  maidens 
And  those  who  are  fated  to  lov=." 

LJERMES  came  to  thy  cradle. 

Resourceful,  sagacious,  serene 
And  said,  -<The  ^irl  must  hav     knowledge 
To  lend  her  freedom  ari  poise. 

"MAUGHT  Will  avail  her  beauty, 

^     If  she  have  not  wit  beside. 
She  shall  be   Hermes'  daughter. 
Passing  wise  in  her  day." 


<J 


to 


A-liiKV^;,. 


I-;: 

I? 

r; 

ir. 
f- 


/^"^  REAT   Pan  came  to  thy  cradle, 
^^-^   With  calm  of  the  deepest  hills, 

And  smiled,  "They  have  forgotten 

The  veriest  power  of  life. 

'  I     O  kindle  her  shapely  beauty, 

A      And  illumine  her  mind  withal, 
I  ^ive  to  the  little  person 
The  glowing  and  craving  soul." 


li 


II 


-4, 


i  r 


VIII 

APHRODITE  of  the  foam, 
^^  Who  hast  ^iven  all  good  gifts, 
And  made  Sappho  at  thy  will 
Love  so  greatly  and  so  much, 

AH'  '^°^  comes  it  my  frail  heart 
^^^  Is  so  fond  of  all  things  fair, 
I  can  never  choose  between 
Gorgo  and  Andromeda? 


12 


^.r^i5s 


WMMm^^!MWM^^~SMmM. 


IX 


XT  AY,  but  always  and  forever 
1   1     Like  the  bending  yellow  grain. 

Or  quick  water  in  a  channel, 

Is  the  heart  of  man. 

^~^ON[ES  the  unseen  breath  in  power 
V>    Like  a  great  wind  from  the  sea, 
And  we  bow  before  his  coming, 
Though  we  know  not  why. 


M 


iV 


13 


m 


TJ\.!l> 


.^;i': 


\^f  m: 


(> 


TET  the-e  te  garlands,   Dica, 

*-'   Around  thy  lovely  hair, 
And  supple  sprays  of  blossom 
Twined  by  thy  soft  hands. 

\A/'HOSO  is  crowned  with  flowers 

"      Has  favour  with  the  gods, 
Who  have  no  kindly  eyes 
For  the  ungarlanded. 


14 


-fm,--^ 


i^'M^ri^ 


■jn 


^>"^i?r 


^^■<«> 


-•s*: 


XI 


\A/HEN   the  Cretan  maidens. 
V  V      Dancing  up  the  full  moon 
Round  some  fair  new  altar, 
Trample  the  soft  blossoms  of  fine  grass, 

npHERE  is  mirth  among  them. 

A      Aphrodite's  children 
Ask  her  benediction 
On  their  bridals  in  the  summer  night. 


1; 


'ill 


)  I 


15 


XII 


I  N  a  dream   I   spoke  with  the  Cyprus-born, 
1    And  said  to  her, 
"  ^°^^^'  °f  beauty,   mother  of  joy. 
Why  hast  thou  ^iven  to 


men 


THIS    thing   called    love,  like    the   ache   of 
a  wound 
In   beauty's  side. 

To  burn  and  throb  and  be  quelled  for  an  he 
And  never  wholly  depart?" 


lour 


AND  the  daughter  of  Cyprus  said  to 
^    "Child  of  the  earth. 
Behold,  all   things  are  born  and  attain, 
But  only  as  they  desire,— 


me, 


I 


i  ! 


THE  sun  that  ,     strong,  the  gods  that  are 
wise, 
The  loving  heart. 

Deeds  and  knowledge  and  beauty  and 
But  before  all  else  was  desire." 
16 


joy. 


xm 


f 


OLEEP  thou  in  the  bosom 
^   Of  the  fender  comrade, 

While  the  living  water 

Whispers  in  the  well-run, 

And  the  oleanders 

Glimmer  in   the  moonlight. 


Coon,  ah,  soon  the  shy  birds 
^   Will   be  at  their  fluting, 

And  the  morning  plar.jt 

Rise  above  the  garden; 

For  there  is  a  measure 

Set  to  all  things  mortal. 


m 


17 


=<W-** 


r:)<l 


^ir*.«*' 


XIV 


f 


H 


ESPERUS.  bringing  together 
All  that  the  morning  star  scattered,- 


s 


HEEP  to  be  folded  in  twilight. 
Children  for  mothers  to  fondle.— 


ly^E   too  Will  brin^  to  the  dearest, 
^    Tenderest  breast  in  all   Lesbos. 


18 


'%:M 


,  Vm-->^ 


<i,P'\' 


,ht1^ 


f 


XV 


I  N  the  grey  olive  grove  a  small  brown  bird 
1    Had  built  her  nest  and  waited  for  the  spring. 
But  who  could  tell  the  happy  thought  that  came 
To  lodge  beneath   my  scarlet  tunic's  fold? 

All  day  long  now  is  the  green  earth   renewed 
-'V    With    the    bright    sea-wind   and    the  yellow 

blossoms. 
From  the  cool  shade   I   hear  the  silver  plash 
Of  the  blown  fountain  at  the  garden's  end. 


19 


1 

I  < 

ill 


J»..*._,L.-. 


XVI 

[  ^  '^^  «Pple  boughs  the  coolness 

'    Murn^urs,  and  the  grey  leaves  flicker 

Where  sleep  wanders. 


f 


I  N  this  garden  all  ,he  hot  noon 

'   "^«"   "^y  fluttering  footfall 
Through  the  twilight. 


^Z 


f* 


20 


CSl-'-''  * 


s 


»J. 


XVII 

pALE   rose  leaves  have  fallen 
*        In  the  fountain   water; 

And  soft  reedy  flute-notes 

Pierce  the  sultry  t^uiet. 


B 


Tell 


UT   I   wait  and  listen, 

Till  the  trodden  gravel 
s  me,  all  impatience, 


It   is   Phaon's  footstep. 


31 


m 


XVIII 


'X'HE  courtyard  of  her  house  is  wide 

1      And  cooi  and  still  when  day  departs. 
Only  the  rustle  of  leaves  is  there 
And  running  water. 


'1  ! 


A  ND  then  her  mouth,  more  delicate 
-«    *■    Than  the  frail  wood-anemone, 
Brushes  my  cheek,  and  deeper  grow 
The  purple  shadows. 


n. 


33 


XIX 


I  ^HERE  is  a  medlar-tree 

1      Growing  in  front  of  my  lover's  house, 
And  there  all  day 
The  wind  makes  a  pleasant  sound. 

And  when  the  evening  comes, 
■iV   We  sit  there  together  in  the  dusk 
And  watch  the  stars 
Appear  in  the  quiet  blue. 


!f|h 

1   Ml 

i 


'If 


I 


!fiM 


33 


■Wii  Jh  -fi  T~~  -^z^Mak-i^snis^ 


XX 


I    behold    Arclurus  j^oinrf  westward 

1    Down  the  crowded  slope  of  n.rfht-dark  azure, 
While   the   Scorpion   with   red   Antarcs 
Trails  alon^  the   sea-line   to  the   southward. 


F 


ROM    the   ilex  ^rove   there   comes   soft 
lauj^hter,  - 

y  companions  at  their  ^lad   lovc-makin^.- 
While   that   curly-headed   boy   from    Naxos 
W.th   his  jade  flute  marks  the  purple  quiet. 


M 


ill 


f! 


fii 


fi: 


34 


^ 


XXI 


f 


ss 


OOF'TLY  the  first   step  of  twilight 
^^    Falls  on   the  darkeninj^  dial, 

One   by  one  kindle  the   lij^hts 

In    Mitylene. 

NOISES  arc  hushed   in  the  courtyard, 
The   busy  day   is  departinj^. 

Children   are  called  from   their  ^ames, 

Herds  from  their  ^razin^. 


AND  from  the  deep-shadowed  an;gles 
•*    »■  Comes  the  soft  murmur  of  lovers, 
Then  through   the  quiet  of  dusk 
Bright  sudden  laughter. 


t  Si 


!  HM 


T^ROM   the  hushed  street,  through  the  portal, 
1        Where  soon  my  lover  will  enter, 

Comes  the  pure  strain  of  a  flute 

Tender  with  passion. 


3» 


r^T-tr^r-  --* 


I 

w 
11 


XXM 

/^NCE  you   lay  upon   my  bosom, 

V^    While  the  long   blue-silver  moonlight 
'.Valkcd  the  plain,   with   that  pure  passion 
All  your  own. 

^  OW  the  moon   is  gone,   the   Pleiads 
1  >l    Gone,   the  dead  of  night  is  going. 
Slips  the  hour,  and  on   my   bed 
I   !  c  alone. 


i\ 


i  fti 


36 


m^ 


XXIII 


I    loved  thee,  Atthis,  in  the  lon^  ago, 
1    When   the  great  oleanders  were  in  flower 
In  the  broad  herded  meadows  full  of  sun. 
And  we  v/ould  often  at  the  fall  of  dusk 
Wander  together  by  the  silver  stream. 
When  the  ^oft  grass-heads  were  all   wet  with 

dew 
And  purple-misted  in  the  fading  light. 
And  joy   I   knew  and  sorrow  at  thy  voice. 

And  the  superb  magnificence  of  love, 

The  loneliness  that  saddens  solitude, 

And  the  sweet  speech  that  makes  it  durable,- 

The  bitter  longing  and  the  keen  desire, 

The  sweet  companionship  through  quiet  days 

In  the  slow  ample  beauty  of  the  world. 

And  the  unutterable  glad  release 

Within  the  temple  of  the  holy  night. 

O  Atthis,  how   I   loved  thee  long  ago 

In  that  fair  perished  summer  by  the  sea! 


il 


)  Jl 


27 


I 


XXIV 

T    shall   be  ever  maiden, 
i    If  thou  be  not  my  lover, 

And  no  man  shall  possess  me 

Henceforth  and  forever. 

D^'T  thou  alone  shalt  father 
L>   This  fragile  flower  of  beauty ,- 

To  crush  and  keep  the  fragrance 

Like  a  holy  incense. 

T^HOU   only  shall  remember 

1      This  love  of  mine,  or  hallow 
The  coming  years  with  gladness. 
Calm  and  pride  and  passion. 


as 


h  f^i 


iaai! 


i  T'wvio^s.fr'^j^tmxms^.: 


••>^MBa&fV,^^^;;?:iBL'ii)^BBi"<'  ";a 


XXV 


It  was  summer  when   I   found  you 
*    In  the  meadow  long  ado, 

And  the  golden  vetch   was  growing 

By  the  shore. 


1, 


'. 


r^ID  we  falter  when  love  took   us 
^-^    With  a  gust  of  great  desire? 
Does  the  barley  bid  the  wind  wait 
In  his  course? 


■I 


29 


•ca  MfV>:i    .•  J.'-i 


'T^'.yyy.iiiap.w 


M 


XXVI 

I    recall  thy  white  ^own,  cinctured 
With  a  linen   belt  whereon 
Violets  were  wrought,  and  scented 
With  strange  perfumes  out  of  Egypt. 


A  ND   I   know  thy  foot  was  covered 
■t     ».    With  fair   Lydian   broidered  straps; 
And  the  petals  from  a  rose-tree 
Fell   within  the  marble  basin. 


m 


I' 


30 


XXVII 


tOVER,  art  thou  of  a  surety 
->    Not  a  learner  of  the  wood-god? 
Has  the  madness  of  his  music 
Never  touched  thee? 


AH,  thou  dear  and  godlike  mortal, 
^    If   Pan  takes  thee  for  his  pupil, 
Make  me  but  another  Syrinx 
For  that  piping. 


31 


III.' 


|gg^ 


.    ic»3-.M-- 


XXVIII 


in 


{ 


\A/ITH  your  head  thrown  backward 

▼    V      In  my  arm's  safe  hollow, 
And  your  face  all  rosy 
With  the  mounting  fervour; 

\A/HILE  the  grave  eyes  greaten 

^  V      With  the  wise  new  wonder, 
Swimming  in  a  love-mist 
Like  the  haze  of  Autumn; 

pROM   that  throat,  the  throbbing 

*        Nightingale's  for  pleading 
Wayward  soft  and  welling 
Inarticulate  love-notes, 

/^^OME  the  words  that  bubble 
^^-^    Up  through  broken  laughter. 
Sweeter  than  spring  water, 
"Gods,   I  am  so  happy!" 


m 


.;i 


32 


XXIX 


Ah,  what  am   I   but  a  torrent, 
-«V    Headstrong,  impetuous,  broken, 
Like  the  spent  clamour  of  waters 
In  the  blue  canyon  ? 

Ah,  what  art  thou  but  a  fern-frond, 
^1-    Wet  with   blown  spray  from  the  river. 
Diffident,  lovely,  sequestered. 
Frail  on  the  rock-ledge? 


«:.^ 


J 


\/^  ET,  are  we  not  for  one  brief  day, 

1      While  the  sun  sleeps  on  the  mountain, 
Wild-hearted  lover  and  love  '  one. 
Safe  in   Pan's  keeping? 


i    t. 


''■J 
\\  m 


33 


:» 


XXX 


TOVn  shakes  ..„    .„.„!.  1,.^  a  mountain  wind 
Lrf    Falling  upoi,  the  .rets, 

When   they  are  sw     c.i    ,  .     whitc-,ed  and  bowed 
As  the  great  gustt,    'il! 


I    know  why   Daph  ,..■   .p.  ,   ..vr    ^r    the  grove 

*    When  the   brigh    god   „,r.,e   hy, 
And  shut  herself  in   the  laurel's  heart 
For  her  silent  docm. 


n 


■■  1 


fi!! 


LOVE  fills  my  heart,   like  my  lover's  breath 
^    Filling  the  hollow  flute, 
Till  the  magic  wood  awakes  and  cries 
With  remembrance  and  joy. 


A 


H,  timid  Syrinx,  do   I   not  know 
Thy  tremor  of  sweet  fear! 


For  a  beautiful   and 
Is  the  lord  of  life. 


imperious  player 


34 


II. 


XXXI 


lOVE,  let  the  wind  cry 
L<   On  the  dark   mountain, 

Bcndinj^  the  ash-trees 

And  the   tali   hemlocks. 

With   the  j,(reat   voice  of 

Thunderous  lej^ions, 

How   I   adore  thee. 


1 1" 


13 


LET  the  hoarse  torrent 
^    In   the   blue  canyon, 
Murmurinj^  mightily 
Out  of  the  j^rey  mist 
Of  primal  chaos, 
Cease  not  proclaiming 
How   I   adore  thee. 

LET  the  long  rhythm 
/   Of  crunching  rollers, 
Breaking  and  bellowing 
On  the  white  seaboard, 
Titan  and  tireless. 
Tell  while  the  world  stands. 
How   I   adore  thee. 
}5 


,n 


i\ 


I 


LOVE,  let  the  clear  call 
J  Of  the  tree-cricket, 
Frailest  of  creatures. 
Green  as  the  young  grass, 
Mark  with   his  trilling 
Resonant  bell-note, 
How  I  adore  thee. 

LET  the  glad  lark-song 
J   Over  the  meadow, 
That  melting  lyric 
Of  molten  silver. 
Be  for  a  signal 
To  listening  mortals, 
How  I  adore  thee. 

BUT  more  than  all  sounds. 
Surer,  serencr. 
Fuller  with  passion 
And  exultation, 
Let  the  hushed  whisper 
In  thine  own  heart  say, 
How  I  adore  thee. 
36 


:/'.j&^-".,2 .* 


XXXII 


!( 


HEART  of  mine,  if  all  the  altars 
Of  the  ages  stood  before  me, 
Not  one  pure  enough  nor  sacred 
Could  I   find  to  lay  this  white,  white 
Rose  of  love  upon. 


J\ 


I    who  am  not  great  enough  to 
Love  thee  with  this  mortal   body 
So  impassionatk^.  with  ardour, 
But  oh,  not  too  small  to  worship 
While  the  sun  shall  shine,    - 


1    would  build  a  fragrant  temple 
To  thee  in  the  dark  green  forest. 
Of  red  cedar  and  fine  sandal. 
And  there  love  thee  with  sweet  service 
All  my  whole  life  long. 


37 


-  1 


T    would  freshen  it  with  flowers, 
1    And  the  piney  hill  wind  through  it 
Should  be  sweetened  with  soft  fervours 
Of  small  prayers  in  gentle  language 
Thou  wouldst  smile  to  hear. 

AND  a  tinkling  Eastern  wind-bell, 
''»■   With   its  fluttering  inscription, 
From  the  rafters  with  bronze  music 
Should  retard  the  quiet  fleeting 
Of  uncounted  hours. 


H; 


A  ND  my  hero,  while  so  human, 
-'i  Should  be  even  as  the  gods  are. 
In  that  shrine  of  utter  gladness. 
With  the  tranquil  stars  above  it 
And  the  sea  below. 


38 


Ki 


xxxin 


i 


\J  EVER  yet,  love,  in  earth's  lifetime, 
i    1     Hath   any  cunningest  minstrel 

Told  the  one  seventh  of  wisdom, 

Ravishment,  ecstasy,  transport. 

Hid  in  the  hue  of  the  hyacinth's 

Purple  in  springtime. 


V  i 


I 


I 


NOT  in  the  lyre  of  Orpheus, 
Not  in  the  son^s  of  Musaeus, 
Lurked  the  unfathomed  bewitchment 
Wrought  by  the  wind  in  the  grasses, 
Held  by  the  rote  of  the  sea-surf. 
In  early  summer. 

/^\NLY  to  exquisite  lovers, 

V_y    Fashioned  for  beauty's  fulfilment. 

Mated  as  rhythm  to  reed-stop 

Whence  the  wild  music  is  moulded. 

Ever  appears  the  full  measure 

Of  the  world's  wonder. 
39 


m 


t? 


f  I 


XXXIV 


w 


'HO  was  Atthis?"  men  shall  ask, 
When  the  world  is  old,  and  time 
Has  accomplished  without  haste 
The  strange  destiny  of  men. 


i*    ft 

■  f 

ill 


;i   I 


ai 


fjAPLY  in  that  far-off  age 

1    1    One  shall  find  these  silver  songs, 
With  their  human  frci.^ht,  and  guess 
What  a  lover  Sappho  was. 


40 


/^ttUi 


^K|Sg: 


XXXV 


WHEN  the  ^rcat  pink  mallow 
Blossoms  in  the  marshland, 
Full  of  lazy  summer 
And  soft  hours, 


-  i 
J 

i 

i 
I 


THEN   I   hear  the  summons 
Not  a  mortal  lover 
Ever  yet  resisted. 
Strange  and  far. 


i 


IN  the  faint  blue  foothills, 
Making  ma^ic  music. 
Pan   is  at  his  love-work 
On  the  reeds. 

I    can  guess  the  heart-stop. 
Fall  and  lull  and  sequence, 
Full  of  grief  for  Syrinx 
Long  ago. 


"I 


41 


i, 


I  ^HEN   the  crowding  madness, 
1      Wild  and  keen  and  tender, 

Trembles  with  the  burden 

Of  great  joy. 

NAY,  but  well   I  follow. 
All   unskilled,  that  fluting. 
Never  yet  was  recd-nymph 
Like  to  thee. 


I 


43 


« 


n     i 


ifiiSSesaMs 


XXXVI 

V ^^ 

WHEN   I   pass  thy  door  at  nijjht, 
I  a  benediction   breathe: 
"  Ye  who  have  the  sleeping  world 
In  your  care, 


GUARD  the  linen  sweet  and  cool, 
Where  a  lovely  golden  head 
With  its  dreams  of  mortal   bliss 
Slumbers  now!" 


4J 


t./ 


I 


m 


iM/ 


XXXVII 


It    ■ 


WELL  I  found  you  in  the  twilit  garden, 
Laid  a  lover's  hand  upon  your 
shoulder, 
And  wc  both  were  made  aware  of  loving 
Past  the  reach  of  reason  to  unravel 
Or  the  much  desiring  heart  to  folio  v. 


■A   i 

1 


THERE  we  heard  the   breath  among  the 
grasses 
And  the  gurgle  of  soft-running  water, 
Well  contented  with  the  spacious  starlight. 
The  cool  wind's  touch  and  the  deep  blue 

distance, 
Till  the  dawn  came  in  with  golden  sandals. 


44 


xxxvm 


WILL  not  men  remember  us 
In  the  days  to  come  hereafter,- 
Thy  warm-coloured  loving  beauty 
And  my  love  for  thee? 

I     HOU,  the  hyacinth  that  grows 
■i.      By  a  quiet-running  river; 

I,  the  watery  reflection 

And  the  broken  gleam. 


il 


45 


I 


J 


^1 

If 


■! 


XXXIX 

I  ^row   weary  of  the   forci>^n  cities, 
i      The   ;,eu  travel   and   the  strun>^tr   peoples, 
liven   the   clear   voice   of  hardy   fortune 
Dares  mc   not   us  once   on   brove   adventure. 

FOR  the  heart  of  man   must   seek  and 
wander, 
Ask   and   i^ueslion   and  discover  knowledge; 
Yet  above   all  goodly   things  is  wisdom, 
And  love  j^reater  than  all   understanding. 

OO,  a  mariner,    f   long  fr     land-fall, 

<~^   When  a  darker  purple  on  the  sea-rim, 
O'er  the   prow  uplifted,   shall   be   Lesbos 
And  the  gleaming  towers  of   Mitylene. 


46 


XL 

AH.    whul   detains  ibec.  Pbaon, 
.    So   lon>{  from    Mitylene, 
Where  now  thy   restless  lover 
Wearies   for  thy  coming? 

A  fever   burns   me,    Pbaon  ; 
My  knees  quake  on  the  threshold, 
And  all   my  strenj^lh   is  loosened, 
Slack  with  disappointment. 

BUT  thou   wilt  come,   my   Pbaon, 
Back   from   the  sea   like  niw.ninj^, 
To  quench   in  golden  gladness 
The  ache  of  parted  lovers. 


1 


<7 


.issm 


XLI 


P 


N 


HAON,   O  my  lover. 
What  should  so  detain   thee, 

OW  the  wind  comes  walking 
Through  the  leafy  twilight? 


A 


LL  the  plum  leaves  c]uiver 
With  the  coolth  and  darkne«s, 


AFTER  their  long  patience 
^    In 


A 


consuming  ardour. 


ND  the  moving  grasses 

Have  reuef;  the  dew-drench 


COMES  to  (]uell  the  parching 
Ache  of  noon  they  suffered. 


I 


alone  of  all  thmgs 
F;et  with  unsluiced  fire. 
48 


K, 


A 


ND  there  is  no  quenching 
In  the  night  for  Sappho, 


s 


INCH  her  lover  Phaon 
Leaves  her  unrequited. 


in 


49 


I  -f 
! 


i  f  1,4 


M  A 


IIM«HMdtoL.taJiM 


XLII 


f^   heart  of  insatiable  longing, 

^^^      What  spell,  what  enchantment  allures 

thee 
Over  the  rim  of  the  world 
With  the  sails  of  the  sea-going  ships? 

AND  when  the  rose  petals  arc  scattered 
k.  At  dead  of  still  noon  on  the  grass  plot, 
What  means  this  passionate  grief, — 
This  infinite  ache  of  regret? 


!i! 


50 


i  I  V 


XLIIl 

SURELY  somehow,  in  some  measure, 
There  will  be  joy  and  fulfilment, — 
Cease  from  this  throb  of  desire, — 
Even  for  Sappho! 

SURELY  some  fortunate  hour 
Phaon  will  come,  and  his  beauty 
Be  spent  like  water  to  plenish 
Need  of  that  beauty! 

WHERE  is  the  breath  of  Poseidon, 
Cool  from  the  sea-floor  with  evening? 
Why  are  Selene's  white  horses 
So  long  arriving? 


!| 


51 


li 


-sm    •>  ^ 


XLIV 

Obut  my  delicate  lover, 
Is  she  not  fair  as  the  moonlight? 
Is  she  not  supple  and  strong 
For  hurried  passion? 

HAS  not  the  god  of  the  green  world, 
In  his  large  tolerant  wisdom, 
Filled  with  the  ardours  of  earth 
Her  twenty  summers? 

\   \  /ELL  did  he  make  her  for  loving; 
V  V      Well  did  he  mould  her  for  beauty; 
Gave  her  the  wish  that  is  brave 
With   understanding. 


o 


Pan,  avert  from  this  maiden 
Sorrow,  misfortune,  bereavement. 

Harm,  and  unhappy  regret," 

Prays  one  fond  mortal. 


52 


I 


A«.-<. 


i 


XLV 


SOFTER  than  the  hill  fo^  to  the  forest 
Are  the  loving  hands  cf  my  dear  lover, 
When  she  sleeps  beside  me  in  the  starlight 
And  her  beauty  drenches  me  with   rest. 


K 


S  the  quiet  mist  enfolds  the  beech-trees, 
Even  as  she  dreams  her  arms  enfold 


me. 


Half  awaking  with  a  hundred  kisses 
On  the  scarlet  lily  of  her  mouth. 


li' 


J3 


XLV! 

Iseek  and  desire, 
Even  as  the  wind 
That  travels  the  plain 
And  stirs  in  the  bloom 
Of  the  apple-tree. 


fl 


I    wander  through  life, 
With  the  searching  mind 
That  is  never  at  rest, 
Till   I   reach  the  shade 
Of  my  lover's  door. 


li 


';:»        I 


J4 


XLVII 


W 


tIKE  torn  sea-kelp  in  the  drift 
-rf   Of  the  great  tides  of  the  sea, 
Carried  past  the  harbour-mouth 
To  the  deep  beyond  return, 


I    am  buoyed  and  borne  away 
On  the  loveliness  of  earth. 
Little  cartnj;^,  save  for  thee. 
Past  the  portals  of  the  night. 


I   t 


I 


|i 


I 

n 


55 


XLVIII 


«:;  i 


iW'-   i> 


i 


FINE  woven  purple  linen 
I   bring  thee  from   Phocaea, 
That,  beauty  upon  beauty, 
A  precious  gift  may  cover 
The  lap  whe-c   I   have  lain. 

AND  a  gold  comb,  and  girdle, 
i  And  trinkets  of  white  silver. 
And  gems  are  in  my  sea-chest, 
Lest  poor  and  empty-handed 
Thy  lover  should  return. 

AND   I   have  brought,  from  Tyre 
t   A   Pan-flute  stained  vermilion, 
Wherein  the  gods  have  hidden 
Love  and  desire  and  longing, 
Which   1   shall  loose  for  thee. 


56 


«. 


XLIX 

WHEN   I   am  home  from  travel, 
My  eager  foot  will   stay  not 
Until   1   reach  the  threshold 
Where  1  went  forth  from  thee. 

AND  there  as  darkness  gathers 
^   In  the  rose-scented  garden 
The  god  who  prospers  music 
Shall  give  me  skill   to   play. 

AND  thou  shalt  hear,  all  startled, 
1-   A  flute  blown  in  the  twilight 
With  the  soft  pleading  magic 
The  green  wood  heard  of  old. 

THEN,   lamp  in  hand,  thy  beauty 
In  the  rose-marble  entry! 
And  unreluctant   Hermes 
Shall  give  mc  words  to  say. 

57 


■! ;. 


WHEN   I   behold  the  pharos  shine 
And  lay  a  path  along  the  sea, 
How  gladly   I   shall  feel  the  spray, 
Standing  upon  the  swinging  prow; 


AND  question  of  my  pilot  old, 
k.    How  many  watery  leagues  to  aaii 
Ere  we  shall  round  the  harbour  reef 
And  anchor  off  the  wharves  of  home! 


I 


I 


$8 


jkA 


LI 


't\ 


IS  the  day  lon^, 
O   Lesbian  maiden, 
And  the  night  endless 
In  thy  lone  chamber 
In  Mitylene? 


? 


ALL  the  bright  day, 
^    Until  welcome  evening 
When  the  stars  kindle 
Over  the  harbour, 
What  tasks  employ  thee? 

PASSING  the  fountain 
At  golden   sundown. 
One  of  the  home-going 
Traffickers,  bast  thou 
Thought  of  u,y   lover? 


J9 


V 


1 

f 


IH 


If' 


NAY  but  how  far 
Too  brief  will   the  ni^ht  be, 
When   I   returning 
To  the  dear  portal 
Hear  my  own  heart  beat! 


^i 


60 


a  i 


LII 


to,  on  the  distance  a  dark  blue  ravine. 
*— '    A  fold  in  the   mountainous  forests  of  fir, 
Cleft   from  the  sky-line  sheer  down  to  the 
shore  I 


ABOVE  are  the  clouds  and  the  white 
i.  pealing  gulls, 
At  its  foot  is  the   rough    broken   foam  of   the 

sea, 
With  ever  anon  the  long  deep  muffled  roar,— 
A  sigh  from  the  fitful  great  heart  of  the  world. 

THEN  inland  just  where  the  small  meadow 
begins. 

Well   bulwarked  with   boulders  that  jut  in  the 
tide, 

Lies  sale  beyond  storm-beat  the  harbour  in 
sun. 


I 

f 


) 


1 


61 


i^ 


SEE  where  the  black  fishing-boats,  each  at 
its  buoy, 
Ride  up  on  the  swell  with   their  dare-danger 

prows, 
To  sight  o'er  the  sea-rim  what  venture  may 
come! 

AND  look,  where  the  narrow  white  streets 
of  the  town 
Lead  up  from  the  blue  water's  edge  to  the 

wood, 
Scant  room  for  man's  range  between  mountain 
and  sea, 

And  the  market  where  woodsmen  from  over 

the  hill 
May  traffic,  and  sailors  from  far  foreign  ports 
With  treasure  brought  in  from  the  ends  of  the 

earth. 


63 


"ia-;--:-/, 


.tl^: 


y^-' 


AND  see  the  third  house  on  the  left,  wit  , 
>•      that  gleam 

Of  red  burnished  copper  — the  hinge  of  the 

door 
Whereat   I   shall  enter,  expected  so  oft 
(Let  love  be  your  sea-star!),  to  voyage  no 

more. 


«3 


Lin 


h 


ART  thou  the  topmost  apple 
The  gatherers  could  not  reach, 
Reddening  on  the  bough? 
Shall  not   I   take  thee? 


APT  thou  a  hyacinth  blossom 
*.   The  shepherds  upon  the  hills 
Have  trodden  into  the  ground? 
Shall  not   I   lift  thee? 


r 

■ ' ! 


I 


! 


FREE   i?  the  young  god   Eros, 
Paying  no  tribute  to  power. 
Seeing  no  evil  in  beauty. 
Full  of  compassion. 

ONCE  having  found  the  beloved, 
However  sorry  or  woeful. 
However  scornful  of  loving, 
Little  it  matters. 


64 


LIV 


HOW  soon  will  all   my  lovely  days  be 
over, 
And   I   no  more  be   found  beneath   the  sun,— 
Neither  beside  the  many-murmuring  sea. 
Nor  where  the  plain  winds  whisper  to  the  reeds, 
Nor  in  the  tall  beech-woods  among  the  hills 
Where  roam  the  bright-lipped  oreads,  nor 
along 

The  pasture  sides  where  berry-pickers  stray 
And  harmless  shepherds  pipe  their  sheep  to 
fold! 


Hi 


POR   I  am  eager,  and  the  flame  of  life 
1      Burns  quickly  in  the  fragile  lamp  of  clay. 
Passion  and  love  and  longing  and  hot  tears 
t     nsume  this  mortal  Sappho,  and  too  soon 
A  great  wind  from  the  dark  will  blow  upon  me, 
And   I   be  no  more  found  in  the  fair  world. 
For  all  the  search  of  the  revolving  moon 
And  patient  shine  of  everlasting  stars. 

65 


h' 


\    J 


f , 


OOUL  of  sorrow,  why  this  weeping? 

<^   What  immortal  grief  hath  touched  thee 
Wi(h  the  poignancy  of  sadness, — 
Testament  of  tears? 

HAVE  the  high  gods  deigned  to  show  thee 
Destiny,  and  disillusion 
Fills  thy  heart  at  all  things  human, 
Fleeting  and  desired? 


NAY,  the  gods  themselves  are  fettered 
By  one  law  which   links  together 
Truth  and  noblen^os  and  beauty, 
Man  and  stars  and  sea. 

A  ND  they  only  shall  find  freedom 
^/v   Who  with  courage  rise  and  fellow 
Where  love  leads  beyond  all  peril, 
Wise  beyond  all  words. 


^1: 


66 


LVI 

J  T  never  can   be  mine 

1    To  sit  in  the  door  in  the   sun 
And  watch  the  world  j^o  by, 
A  pageant  and  a  dream; 

FOR   !   was  born  for   love, 
And  fashioned  for  desire, 
Beauty,  passion,  and  joy, 
And   sorrow  and   unrest; 

AND  with  all  things  of  earth 
>    Eternally  must  go, 
Daring  the  perilous  bourn 
Of  joyance  and  of  death, 

A  strain  of  song  by  night, 
A  shadow  on  the  hill, 
A  hint  of  odorous  grass, 
A   murmur  of  the   sea. 


I,    ■ 


67 


'&-:47'^ 


'.'^:. 


■»._-,  I     ia^i^i>»|.,p,. 


f 


if  I  ■  & 


* 


LVII 

OTHERS  shall  behold  the  sun 
Through  the  long  uncounted  years, 
Not  a  maid  in  after  time 
Wise  as  thou. 

FOR  the  gods  have  given  thee 
Their  best  gift,  an  equal  mind 
That  can  only  love,  be  glad. 
And  fear  not. 


68 


m^:^m^ 


^LVIII 

T  ET  thy  strong  spirit   never  fear, 

L/    Nor  in  thy  virgin   soul  be  thou  afraid. 

The  gods  themselves  and  the  almightier  fates 

Cannot  avail  to  harm 


\  A /''^H   ^"tward  and  misfortunatc  chance 

V  V      The  radiant  unshaken   mind  of  him 
Who  at  his  being's  centre  will  abide, 
Secure  from  doubt  and  fear. 

11  IS  wise  and   patient  heart  shall  share 
1    1    The  strong  sweet  loveliness  of  all   things 
made 

And  the  serenity  of  inward  joy 

Beyond  the  storm  of  tears. 


, 


h 


69 


LIX 


WILL  none  say  of  Sappho, 
Speaking  of  her  lovers, 
And  the  love  the"  ^ave  her, — 
Joy  and  days  and  beauty, 
Flute-playing  and  roses. 
Song  and  wine  and  laughter, — 


WILL  none,  musing*    murmur, 
"Yet  for    .11  the  roses. 
All  the  flutes  and  lovers. 
Doubt  not  she  was  lonely 
As  the  sea,  whose  cad;nce 
Haunts  the  world  forever." 


70 


JfcsSSi 


w^:'msm 


LX 

WHEN   I   have  dcnartcd, 
Say  but  this  bch.nd  me, 
Love  was  ail  her  wisdom, 
All  her  care. 


"\  A  /ELL  she  kept  love's  secrct,- 

V   y      Dared  and  never  filtered, 

Laughed  and  never  doubted 
Lcve  woul."   win. 

LET  the  world's  rou^h  triumph 
^    Trample  by  above  her, 
She  is  safe  forever 
From  all  harm. 


IN 
E 


a  land  that  knows  not 
Bitterness  nor  sorrow, 
She  has  found  ^  at  all 
Of  truth  at  last." 


71 


T 


LXI 

THERE   IS  no  more  to  say  now  thou  art 
still, 
There  is  no  more  to  do  now  thou  art  dcod, 
There  is  no  nnore  to  know  now  thy  clear  mind 
Is  back  returned  unto  the  gods  who  gave  it. 

NOW  thou  art  gone  the  use  of  life   is  past, 
The   meaning  and  the  glory  and  the  pride, 
There  is  no  joyous  friend  to  share  the  day 
And  on  the  threshold  no  awaited  shadow. 


73 


ii\ 


m&mk' 


i^^smnmsvm 


PI.AY   up.   play  up  thy  silver  flute; 
The  cricket;;  oil  are   brave; 
Glad  is  the  red  autumnal  earth 
And  the   blue  sea. 

r)LAY   up  thy  flawless  silver  flute; 
1        Dead  ripe  are   '-uit  and  ;^rain. 
When    Love  puts  on   .'lis  scarlet  coat, 
Put  off  thy  care. 


73 


J' 

( 


mp'.-.mm^srme!'  j}'^:  ■•^m€^':   ^^.^-i^^fss^ssmBwrna^em'-.^s^xw^m^^mmi^:: 


lii/ 


Lxin 

A  beautiful  child  is  mine, 
Formed  like  a  golden  flower, 
Cleis  the  loved  one. 
And  above  her  I  value 
Not  all  the   Lydian   land. 
Nor  lovely  Hellas. 


74 


'4^!m:i^^^mr^iwwif:r^:F^w-i.^^i^'^^:^ 


? 


LXIV 


AH,   but  now  henceforth 
I.   Only  one  meaning 
Has  life  for  me. 


i 


ONLY  one  purport, 
Measure  and  beauty, 
Has  the  bright  world. 

WHAT    mean  the  wood-winds, 
Colour  and  morning. 
Bird,  stream,  and  hill? 

AND  the  brave  city 
>.   With  its  enchantment? 
Thee,  only  thee. 


75 


.r^'vrTA 


f  f 

!  1 


I 


LXV 

SOFTLY  the  wind  moves  through  the 
radiant  morning, 
And  the  warm  sunlight  sinks  into  the  valley, 
Filling  the  green  earth  with  a  quiet  joyance, 
Strength,  and  fulfilment. 

EVEN   so,  gentle,  strong  and  wise  and  happy. 
Through  the  soul  and  substance  of  my  being, 
Comes  the  breath  of  thy  great  love  to  meward, 
O  thou  dear  mortal. 


76 


i^^  c^;  */^S2¥  '■r'^^SKW^^rsJ--' 


■f}(      J.  A: 


I 


LXVI 

WHAT  the  west  wind  whispers 
At  the  end  of  summer, 
When  the  barley  harvest 
Ripens  to  the  sickle, 
Who  can  tell? 

WHAT  means  the  fine  music 
Of  the  dry  cicada, 
Through  the  long  noon  hours 
Of  the  autumn   stillness. 
Who  can  say? 

HOW  the  grape  ungathered 
With  its  bloom  of  blueness 
Greatens  on  the  trellis 
Of  the  brick-walled  garden, 
Who  can  know? 


77 


•:>'TV-v^ 


jrwjyv 


I 


YET   I,  too,  arr  ^reatened, 
Keep  the  note  of  gladness, 
Travel  by  the  wind's  road, 
Through  this  autumn  leisure, — 
By  thy  love. 


Mi 


4 


i 

ii 


78 


tf  -^»»v 


Lxvn 


INDOORS  the  fire  is  kindled; 

1    Becchwood  is  piled  on  the  hearthstone; 
Cold  are  the  chattering  oak   leaves; 
And  the  ponds  frost-bitten. 

SOFTER  than  rainfall  at  twilight, 
Bringing  the  fields  benediction 
And  the  hills  quiet  and  grcyness, 
Arc  my  long  thoughts  of  thee. 


i 


ITOW  should  thy  friend  fear  the  seasons? 

1    1    They  only  peri'^!:  of  winter 
Whom   Love,  audacious  and  tender. 
Never  hath  visited. 


79 


^■•cstia^k. 


M 


Lxvni 


Y 


OU  ask  how  love  can  keep  the  mortal 


soul 


Strong  to  the  pitch  of  joy  throughout  the  years. 


A 


SK  how  your  brave  cicada  on  the  bough 
Keeps  the  long  sweet  insistence  of  his  cry; 


A 


SK  how  the  Pleiads  steer  across  the  night 
In  their  serene  unswerving  mighty  course; 


A 


SK  how  the  wood-flowers  waken  to  the  sun, 
Unsrmmoned  save  by  some  mysterious 
word; 


ASK  how  the  wandering  swallows  find  your 
L       eaves, 
Upon  the  rain-wind  with  returning  spring; 


80 


mm:^i^--'ii,i^- 


A 


SK  who  commands  the  ever  punctual  tide 
To  keep  the  pendulous  rhythm  of  the 


sea; 


AND  you  s 
I-        man 


shall  know  what  leads  the  heart  of 


To  the  far  haven  of  his  hopes  and  fears. 


I 


Rl 


,:  ( 


LXIX 


LKE  a  tall  forest  were  their  spears, 
'   Their  banners  like  a  silken  sea, 
When  the  great  host  in   splendour  passed 
Across  the  crimson  sinking  sun. 

AND  then  the  bray  of  brazen  horns 
.   Arose  above  their  clanking  march, 
As  the  long  waving  column  filed 
into  the  odorous  purple  dusk. 


O    lover,  in  this  radiant  world 
Whence  is  the  race  of  mortal  men. 
So  frail,  so  mighty,  and  so  fond. 
That  fleets  into  the  vast  unknown? 


83 


m 


ii 


LXX 

MY  lover  smiled,  "O  fricn^',  ask  not 
The  journey's  end  nor  whence  wc  are. 
That  whistling  boy  who  minds  his  goats 
So  idly  in  the  grey  ravine, 

THE  brown-backed  rower  drenched  with 
spray, 
The  lemon-seller  in  the  street, 
And  the  young  girl  who  keeps  her  first 
Wild  love-tryst  at  the  rising  moon, — 


C 


O,  these  are  wiser  'ban  the  wise. 
And  not  for  all  our  questioning 
Shall  we  discover  more  than  joy. 
Nor  find  a  better  thing  than  love! 


IV 


I 


LET  pass  the  banners  and  the  spears, 
^   The  hate,  the  battle,  and  the  greed; 
For  greater  than  all  gifts  is  peace. 
And  strength   is  in  the  tranquil  mind." 


83 


iiOl 


> 


LXXI 

YE  who  hav2  the  stable  world 
In  the  keeping  of  your  hands, 
Flocks  and  men,  the  lasting  hills, 
And  the  ever-wheeling  stars; 

YE  who  freight  with  wond'-jus  tl  ings 
The  wide-wandering  heart  of  man 
And      e  galleon  of  the  moon, 
On  those  silent  "^eas  of  foam; 

OH,  if  ever  ye  shall  grant 
Time  and  place  and  room  enough 
To  this  fond  and  fragile  heart 
Stifled  V    h  the  throb  of  love. 


if 


ON  that  day  one  grave-eyed   Fate, 
Pausing  in  her  toil,  shall  say, 
'  Lo,  one  mortal  has  achieved 
Immortality  of  love!" 


84 


■v-BAi 


avas^yrs^T'-'^r.^sssiue**?*?" 


LXXII 

I    heard  the  ^ods  reply: 
"Trust  not  the  future  with  i       terilous 
chance ; 
The  fortunate  hour  is  on  the  dial  now. 


TO-DAY  be  wise  and  great, 
And  put  off  hesitation  and  go  forth 
With  cheerful  courage  for  the  diurnal  need. 


s 


TOUT  be  the  heart,  nor  slow 
The  foot  to  follow  the  impetuous  will. 
Nor  the  hand  slack  upon  the  loom  of  deeds. 


'"nr^HEN   may  the   Fates  look  up 

1      And  smile  a  little  in  their   tolerant  way, 
Being  full  of  infinite  regard  for  men." 


8J 


i^ 


•J, 


m^-;m>mmmj^BZ' 


^1 


«, ' 


LXXIII 


( 


I 


THE  9un  on  the  tide,  the  peach  on  the  bough, 
The  blue  smoke  over  the  hill, 
And  the  shadows  trailing  the  valley-side, 
Make  up  the  autumn  day. 

AH,  no,  not  half  I     Thou  art  not  here 
V   Under  the  bronze  beech  leaves, 
Ar.u  thy  lover's  soul  like  o  lonely  child 
Roams  through  an  empty  room. 


i 


'  \ 


8« 


I 


LXXIV 

IF  death  be  jijood, 
Why  do  the  j^ods  not  die? 
If  life  he  ill, 
Why  do  the  ^ods  still   live? 

IF  love  be  naught, 
Why  do  thp  god»  still  love? 
if  love  be  all. 
What  should  men  do  but  love? 


87 


* 


■i 


Mm* 


LXXV 

TELL   me  what  this  life  means, 
O  my  prince  and  lover, 
With  the  autumn  sunlight 
On  thy  bronze-gold  head? 

WITH   thy  clear  voice  sounding 
Through  the  silver  twilight, — 
What  is  the  lost  secret 
Of  the  tacit  earth? 


88 


LXXVl 


YE  have  heard  how   Marsyas, 
In  the  folly  of  his  pride, 
Boasted  of  a  matchless  skill, — 
When  the  great  god's  back  was  turned; 

HOW  his  fond  imas^ining 
Fell  to  ashes  cold  and  grey, 
When  the  flawless  player  came 
In  serenity  and  light. 

SO   it  was  with   those   I   loved 
In  the  years  ere   I   loved  thee. 
Many  a  saying  sounds  like  truth, 
Until   Truth   itself  is  heard. 

MANY  a  beauty  only  lives 
Until   Beauty  passes  by. 
And  the  mortal  is  forgot 
In  the  shadow  of  the  god. 


89 


•,i» 


riHl 


HHP 


1^ 


'i  1 


LXXVII 


t 


'-. 


HOUR  by  hour  I  sit, 
Watching  the  silent  door. 
Shadows  go  by  on  the  wall, 
And  steps  in  the  street. 

EXPECTATION  and  doubt 
Flutter  my  timorous  heart. 
So  many  hurrying  horn'.  — 
And  thou  still  away. 


90 


ii 


Lxxvni 


ONCE  in  the  shining  street, 
In  the  heart  of  a  seaboard  town, 
As   I   waited,  behold,  there  came 
The  woman   I  loved. 


AS   when  in  the  early  spring 
L   A  daffodil  blooms  in  the  grass, 
Golden  and  gracious  and  glad, 
Ti.i  solitude  smiled. 


i 

5 


91 


':! 


( 


LXXIX 


'   i 


hi  OW  strange  is  love,  O  my  lover ! 
1    With  what  enchantment  and  power 
Does  it  not  come  upon  mortals, 
Learned  or  heedless  ! 

HOW  far  away  and  unreal. 
Paint  as  blue  isles  in  a  sunset 
Haze-golden,  all  else  of  life  seems. 
Since   I   have  known  thee! 


92 


.  '3SS    \    t.     ■■  ^ 


LXXX 


HOW  to  say   I   love  you: 
What,  if  1   but  live  it, 
Were  the  use  in  that,  love  ? 
Small,  indeed. 

ONLY,  every  moment 
Of  this  waking  lifetime, 
Let  me  be  your  lover 
And  your   friend! 

AH,  but  then,  as  sure  as 
L    Blossom  breaks  from  bud-sheath. 
When  along  the  hillside 
Spring  returns, 

GOLDEN   speech   should  flower 
From  the  soul   so  cherished 
And  the  m-^uth  your  kisses 
Filled  with   fire. 


93 


■V?v 


I 


n 

i 


I 


LXXXI 

HARK,  love,  to  the  tambourines 
Of  the  minstrels  in  the  street. 
And  one  voice  that  throbs  and  soars 
Clear  above  the  clashing  time ! 

SOME   E^ptian  royal  love-lilt, 
Some  Sidonian  refrain, 
Vows  of  Paphos  or  of  Tyre, 
Mount  against  the  silver  sun. 

PLEADING,  piercing,  yet  serene. 
Vagrant  in  a  foreign  town, 
From  what  passion  was  it  born. 
In  what  lost  land  over  sea? 


94 


n  t 


LXXXII 


O 


VER  the  roofs  the  honey-coloured  moon, 
With   purple  shadows  on  the  silver  ^rass, 


K 


ND  the  warm  south  wind  on  the  curving  sea, 
While  we  two,  lovers  past  all  turmoil  now, 


WATCH   from  the  window  the  white  sails 
come  in, 
Bearing  what  unknown  ventures  safe  to  port  ! 


s 


O  falls  the  hour  of  twilight  and  of  love 
With  wizardry  to  loose  the  hearts  of  meii. 


AND  there  is  nothing  more  in  this  great 
L   world 
Than  thou  and   I   and  the  blue  dome  of  dusk. 


95 


iife 


'N 


R    i 


LXXXIII 


IN   the  quiet  garden  world, 
Gold  sunlight  and   shadow  leaves 
Flicker  on  the  wall. 


I 


AND  the  wind  a  moment  since 
L   With  rose-petals  strewed  the  path 
And  the  open  door. 

NOW  the  moon-white  butterflies 
Float  across  the  liquid  air, 
Glad  as  in  a  dream; 

AND  across  thy  lover's  heart 
L   Visions  of  one  scarlet  mouth 
With  its  maddening  smile. 


I 


96 


r 


LXXXIV 


SOFT  was  the  wind  in  the  beerh-trces; 
Low  was  the  surf  on  the  shore; 
In  the  blue  dusk  one  planet 
Like  a  ^reat  sea-pharos  shone. 

BUT  nothing  to  me  were  the  sea-sounds, 
The  wind  and  the  yellow  star, 
When  over  my  breast  the  banner 
Of  your  golden  hair  was  spread. 


97 


^fl 


ttiiHi 


tBI&ii^USSi 


im 


/I 


LXXXV 

HAVE  ye  heard  the  news  of  Sappho's 
garden 
And  the  Golden   Rose  of  Mitylenc, 
Which  the  bendinj^  brown-armed  rowers  lately 
Brought  from  over  sea,  from  lonely  Pontus' 

IN  a  meadow  by  the  river  Halys, 
Where  some  wood-god  hath  the  world  in 
keeping, 
On  a  burning  summer  noon  they  found  her, 
Lovely  as  a  dryad  and  more  tender. 

HER  these  eyes  have  seen,  and  not  another 
Shall  behold,  till  time  takes  all  things 
goodly. 
So  surpassing  fair  and  fond  and  wondrous, — 
Such  a  slave  as,  worth  a  great  king's  ransom. 


98 


*^ 


No  man  yet  of  all  the  sons  of  mortals 
But  would  lose  his  soul  for  and  rogret 
not; 
So  hath   Beauty  compassed  alt  her  children 
With  the  cords  of  longing  and  desire. 

ONLY   Hermes,  master  of  word  music, 
Ever  yet  in  j^lory  of  gold  language 
Could  ensphere  the  magical  remembrance 
Of  her  melting,  half  sad,  wayward  beauty, 

OR  devise  the  silver  phrase  to  frame  her. 
The  inevitable  name  to  call  her. 
Half  a  sigh  and  half  a  kiss  when  whispered, 
Like  pure  air  that  feeds  a  forge's  hunger. 

NOT  a  painter  in  the   Isles  of  Hellas 
Could  portray  her,  mix  the  golden  tawny 
With   bright  stain  of  poppies,  or  ensanguine 
Like  the  life  her  darling  mouth's  vermilion, 

99 


mmm 


So  that  in  the  ajjes  long  hereafter, 
When  we  shall   be  dust  of  perished 
summers, 
Any  man  could  say  who  found  that  likeness, 
Smiling  gently  on  it,  "This  was  Gorgol" 


100 


LXXXVl 


LOVE   is  so  strong  a  thing, 
^   The  very  gods  must  yield, 
When   it  is  welded  fast 
With  the  unflinching  truth. 

LOVE   is  so  frail  a  thing, 
^    A  word,  a  look,   will  kill. 
O  lovers,  have  a  care 
How  ye  do  deal   with   love. 


101 


:^P4-i 


'.,T'  '-  - 

■yt* ,.. 


(i 


LXXXVIl 


HADST  thou  with  all  thy  loveliness  been  true, 
Had  I   with  all  my  tenderness  been  strong, 
We  had  not  made  this  ruin  out  of  life, 
This  desolation  in  a  world  of  joy, 
My  poor  Gorgo. 

YET  even  the  high  gods  at  times  do  err; 
Be  therefore  thou  not  overcome  with  woe. 
But  dedicate  anew  to  greater  love 
An  equal  heart,  and  be  thy  radiant  self 
Once  more,  Gorgo. 


Iv 


103 


P    7 


kMt'mg!^:'K  <^  v:^;.»t 3t^m#t  ■  ,^  -M:. :.  iitt^> 


LXXXVIIl 


AS  on   a  morn  a     -  ivciitr  rni^l-**   emerge 
I    From  the  deet    ^.r.-^n  scclusivn  of  the  hills, 
By  a  coo!  road  thro  :■!.   'ot^Xi  arJ  through  fern, 
Little  frequented,  winding,  followed  long 
With  joyous  expectation  and  day-dreams, 
And  on  a  sudden  turning  a  great  rock 
Covered  with  frondage,  dark  with  dripping  water. 
Behold  the  seaboard  full  of  surf  and  sound. 
With  all  the  space  and  glory  of  the  world 
Above  the  burnished  silver  of  the  sea, — 


103 


■  h 


EVEN   so  it  was  upon  that  first  spring  day 
When  time  that  is  a  devious  path  for  men 
Led  me  all  lonely  to  thy  door  at  last; 
And  all  thy  splendid  beauty  gracious  and  glad 
(Glad  as  bright  colour,  free  as  wind  or  air, 
And  lovelier  than  racing  seas  of  foam) 
Bore  sense  and  soul  and  mind  at  once  away 
To  a  pure  region  where  the  gods  might  dwell, 
Making  of  me,  a  vagrant  child  before, 
A  servant  of  joy  at  Aphrodite's  w-M. 


104 


^^am 


■MP 


LXXXIX 


WHERE  shall    I   look  for  thee. 
Where  find  thee  now, 
O  my  lost  Atthis? 

STORM   bars  the  harbour, 
And  snow  keeps  the  pass 
In  the  blue  mountains. 

BITTER  the  wind  whistles. 
Pale  is  the  sun, 
And  the  days  shorten. 

CLOSE  to  the  hearthstone. 
With   ''-ng  thoughts  of  thee. 
Thy   lone! 


SITS  now,  remembering 
All  the  spent  hours 
And  thy  fair  beauty. 


105 


A 


tm 


AH,  when  the  hyacinth 
k   Wakens  with  spring, 
And  buds  the  laurel, 


DOUBT  not,  some  morning 
When   all  earth   revives, 
Hearing  Pan's  flute-call 


OVER  the  river-beds, 
Over  the  hills. 
Sounding  the  summons, 

I    shall  look  up  and  behold 
In  the  door, 
Smiling,  expectant, 

LOVINC-  t',  ever 
>   And  glai  as  of  old, 
My  own  lost  Atthis! 

106 


xc 


Osad,  sad  face  and  saddest  eyes  that   ever 
Beheld  the  sun, 
Whence  came  the  grief  that  makes  of  all  thy 

beauty 
One  sad  sweet  smile  ? 

IN   this  bright  portrait  where  the   painter  fixed 
them 
I   still  behold 
The  eyes  that  gladdened  and  the  lips  that  loved 

me, 
And,  gold  on  rose, 

THE  cloud  of  hair  that  settles  on  one 
shoulder 
Slipped  from  its  vest. 
1   almost  hear  thy   Mitylenean  love-song 
In  the  spring  night, 


107 


i 


lifcJvS* 


'^W 


WHEN   the  still  air   was  odorous  with 
blossoi.is 
And  in  the  hour 

Thy  first  wild  girl's-love  trembled   into  being, 
Glad,  glad  and  fond. 

AH,  where  is  all  that  wonder?     What  God's 
^   malice 
Undid  that  joy 

And  set  the  seal  of  patient  woe  upon  thee, 
O  my   lost  love  ? 


108 


■ 


XCI 


WHY   have  the  gods  in  derision 
Severed  us,  heart  of  my  beinj^  ^ 
Where  have  they  lured  thee  to  wander, 
O  my   lost  lover  ? 

WHILE  now   I   sojourn  with  sorrow, 
Having  remorse  for  my  comrade. 
What  town   is  blessed  with   thy   beauty. 
Gladdened  and  prospered  i 

NAY,  who  could  love  as   I   loved  thee, 
With  whom  thy   beauty  was  mingled 
In  those  spring  days  when  the  swallows 
Came  with  the  south   wind  ? 

THEN    1   became  as  that  shepherd 
Loved  by  Selene  on   Latmus, 
Once  when  her  own  summer  magic 
Took  hold  upon  her 


109 


WITH   a  sweet  madness,  and 
thenceforth 
Her  mortal  lover  must  wander 
Over  the  wide  world  forever, 
Like  one  enchanted. 


ii! 


no 


it^MS- 


XCIl 


LIKE  a  red  lily  in   the  meadow  grasses, 
^   Swayea  by  the  wind  and  burning  in   the 
sunlight, 
I   saw  you  where  the  city  chokes  with  traffic 
Bearing  among  the   prss^rs-by  your  beauty, 
Unsullied,  wild,  and   delicate  as  a  flower. 
And  then   I   knew  past  doubt  or  peradventurc 
Our  loved  and  mighty   Eleusinian  mother 
Had  taken  thought  of  me  for  her  pure  worship, 
And  of  her  favour  had  assigned  my  comrade 
For  the  Great   Mysteries, —  knew   1   should  find 

you 
When  the  dusk  murmure-'  wi;h  its  new-made 

lovers. 
And  wc  be  no  more  foolish   but  wise  children 
And  well  content  partake  of  joy  together. 
As  she  ordains  and  human  hearts  desire. 


Ml 


J 


m 


""^^^^aSs^^fSmn^r 


TEZ 


^_i  iAu^j 


XCIII 


WHEN    in  the  sprinj^  the  swallows  all 
return, 
And  the  bleak  hitter  sea  ^rows  mild  once  more, 
With  all  its  thunders  softened  to   a  si^h ; 


WHEN   to  the  meadows  the  youn^  ^reen 
comes  back, 
And  swelling  buds  put  forth  on  every  bou^h, 
With  wild-wood  odours  on  the  delicate  air; 

AH.  then,   in  that  so  lovely  earth  wilt  thou 
L   With  ^11    ^  '  beauty  love   me  all  one  way, 
And  make  me  all  thy  lover  as  before? 

LO.  where  the  white-maned  horses  of  the 
^   surge, 
Plunging  in  thunderous  onset  to  the  shore. 
Trample  and  break  and  charge  along  the   sand  ! 


113 


XCIV 

COLD  is  the  wind  where   Daphne    sleeps, 
That  was  so  t'*ndcr  and  so  warm 
With  loving, —  with  a  loveliness 
Than  her  own  laurel  lovelier. 

NOW  pipes  the  bitter  wind  for  her, 
And  the  snow  sifts  about  her  door, 
While  far  below  her  frosty  hill 
The  racing  billows  plunge  and  boom. 


113 


xcv 


HARK,   where   Poseidon's 
White  racinj^  horses 
Trample  with   tumult 
The  shelving  seaboard! 

OLDER  than   Saturn, 
Older  than   Rhea, 
That  mournful  music, 
Falling  and   sur^inj^ 

WITH   the  vast  rhythm 
Ceaseless,   eternal. 
Keeps  the  lonj^  tally 
Of  all  things  mortal. 

HOW   many  lovers 
Hath   not  its  lulling 
Cradled  to  slumber 
With   the   ripe   (lowers, 


114 


ERE   for  our   pleasure 
This  golden   summer 
Walked  throuj^h  the  corn-lands 
In  gracious  splendour! 

HOW  many  loved  ones 
Will   it   not  croon   to. 
In  the  lon^  spring  days 
Through  coming  ages, 

WHEN   all  our  day-dreams 
Have  been   forgotten. 
And  none  remembers 
Even  thy  beauty ! 

THEY  too  shall   slumber 
In  quiet  places. 
And  mighty   sea-sounds 
Call  them  unheeded. 


11^ 


I!  . 


%. 


XCVl 


HARK,  my  lover,  it  is  spring! 
On  the  wind  a  faint  far  call 
Wakes  a  pang  within  my  heart. 
Unmistakable  and  keen. 

AT  the  harbour  mouth  a  sail 
k.   Glimmers  in  the  morning  sun, 
And  the  ripples  at  bcr  prow 
Whiten  into  crumbling  foam, 

AS  she  forges  outward  bound 
L    For  the  teeming  foreign  ports. 
Through  the  open  window  now. 
Hear  the  sailors  lift  a  song! 

IN  the  meadow  ground  the  frogs 
With   their  deafening  flutes  bcgin,- 
Thc  old  madness  of  the  world 
In  their  golden  thioats  again. 


116 


4 


...11-  .Ji.l'JlUJJSAi!'. 


LITTLE  fifers  of  live  bronze, 
J   Who  bath  taught  you  with  wise  lore 
To  unloose  the  strains  of  joy, 
When  Orion  seeks  the  west? 

AND  you  feathered  flute-players, 
L   Who  instructed  you  to  fill 
All  the  blossomy  orchards  now 
With  melodious  desire? 

I    doubt  not  our  father  Pan 
Hath  a  care  of  all  these  things. 
In  some  valley  of  the  hills 
Far  away  and  misty-blue, 

BY  quick  water  he  hath  cut 
A  new  pipe,  and  set  the  wood 
To  his  smiling  lips,  and  blown, 
That  earth's  rapture  be  restored. 


m 


ill 


m 


AND  those  wild   Pandean  stops 
L    Mark  the  cadence  life  must  keep. 
O  my  lover,  be  thou  ^lad; 
It  is  spring  in   Hellas  now. 


118 


■**-« 


■«PIPBP«*im! 


XCVII 


WHEN   the  early  soft  spring  wind  comes 
blowing 
Over   Rhodes  and  Samos  and   Miletus, 
From  the  seven  mouths  of  Nile  to   Lesbos, 
Freighted  with  sea-odours  and  gold  sunshine, 


w 


HAT  news  spreads  among  the  island 
people 

In  the  market-place  of  Mitylene, 
Lending  that  unwonted  stir  of  gladness 
To  the  busy  streets  and  thronging  doorways? 

IS  it  word  from   Ninus  or  Arbela, 
Babylon  the  great,  or   Northern  Imbros? 
Have  the  laden  galleons  been  sighted 
Stoutly  labouring  up  the  sea  from  Tyre? 


119 


kMan 


iPMHI 


NAY,  't  is  older  news  that  loreign  sailor 
With  the  cheek  of  sea-tan  stops  to  prattle 
To  the  youn^  fig-seller  with  her  basket 
i*nd  the  breasts  that  bud  beneath  her  tunic. 

AND   I   hear  it  in  the  rustling  tree-tops. 
L   All  this  passionate  bright  tender  body 
Quivers  like  a  leaf  the  wind  has  shaken, 
Now  love  wanders  through  the  aisles  of 
springtime. 


120 


.t 


■Mn 


XCVIII 


I 


am  more  tremulous  than  shaken  reeds, 
And  love  has  made  me  like  the  river  water. 


T 


HY  voice  is  as  the  hill  wind  over  me, 
And  all  my  changing  heart  ^ives  heed,  my 


lover. 


BEP'ORE  thy  least  lost  murmur  I  must 
si^h, 
Or  gladden  with  thee  as  the  sun-path  glitters. 


131 


— *« 


iimm. 


--  "-•^-^^--- 


=  "'''^'"^!^^_-' 


,f. . 


XCIX 


il*k 


^^ 


OVER  the  wheat  field, 
Over  the  hill-crest, 
Swoops  and  is  gone 
The  beat  of  a  wild  wing. 
Brushing  the  pine-tops, 
Bending  the  poppies, 
Hurrying  Northward 
With  golden  summer. 

WHAT  premonition, 
O  purple  swallow. 
Told  thee  the  happy 
Hour  of  migration? 
Hark!     On  the  threshold 
(Hush,  flurried  heart  in  me!). 
Was  there  a  footfall? 
Did  no  one  enter? 


132 


rrai 


SOON  will  a  shepherd 
In  ru^ed   Dacia, 
Folding  his  gentle 
Ewes  in  the  twilight, 
Lifting  a  level 
Gaze  from  the  sheepfold, 
Say  to  his  fellow, 
"  Lo,  it  is  springtime." 

THIS  very  hour 
In   Mitylenc, 
Will  not  a  young  girl 
Say  to  her  lover, 
Lifting  her  moon-white 
Arms  to  enlace  him. 
Ere  the  glad  sigh  comes, 
"  Lo,  it  is  lovctime!  " 


123 


m 


nBsmm 


t 


ONCE  more  the  rain  on  the  mountain, 
Once  more  the  wind  in  the  valley, 
With  the  soft  odours  of  springtime 
And  the  lon^  breath  of  remembrance, 
O   Lityerscs! 

WARM  is  the  sun  in  the  city. 
On  the  street  corners  with  laughter 
Traffic  the  flower-^irls.      Beauty 
Blossoms  once  more  for  thy  pleasure 
In   many  places. 

GENTLIER  now  falls  the  twilight. 
With   the  slim  moon  in   the  pear-trees; 
And  the  green  frogs  in  the  meadows 
Blow  on  shrill  pipes  to  awaken 
Thee,   Lityerscs. 


134 


rilfa 


GLADLIER   now  crimson   morning 
Flushes  fair-built   Mityiene, — 
Portico,  temple,  and  column, — 
Where  the  youn^  garlanded  women 
Praise  thee  with   singinj^. 

AH,  but   what  burden  of  sorrow 
L    Tinges  their  slow  stately  chorus, 
Though   spring  revisits  the  glad  earth? 
Wilt  thou  not  wake  to  their  summons, 
O   Lityerscs? 

SHALL  they  then  never  behold  thee,- 
Nevermore  see  thee  returning 
Down  the  blue  cleft  of  the  mountains, 
Nor  in  the  purple  of  evening 
Welcome  thy  coming? 


135 


mtma 


iflMMH 


Ma 


NEVERMORE  answer  thy  glowinj^ 
Youtli  with  their  ardour,  nor  cherish 
With  lovely  longing  thy  spirit, 
Nor  with  soft  laughter  beguile  thee, 
O  Lityerses  ? 

HEEDLESS,  assuaged,  art  thou  sleeping 
Where  the  spring  sun  cannot  find  thee, 
Nor  the  wind  waken,  nor  woodlands 
Bloom  for  thy  innocent  rapture 
Through  golden  hours? 

HAST  thou  no  passion  nor  pity 
For  thy  deserted  companions? 
Never  again  will  thy  beauty 
Quell  their  desire  nor  rekindle, 
O   Lityerses? 


136 


NAY,  but  in  vain  their  clear  voices 
Call  thee.      Thy  sensitive  beauty 
Is  become  part  of  the  fleeting 
Loveliness,  merged  in  the  pathos 
Of  all  things  mortal. 

IN  the  faint  fragrance  of  flowers, 
On  the  sweet  draft  of  the  sea-wind. 
Linger  strange  hints  now  that  loosen 
Tears  for  thy  gay  gentle  spirit, 
O   Lityerses! 


137 


IliMHH'I'l 


Now  th  '  hi !       J      mgs  are  made, 
/Ind  thi.        i^jrires.      Loving  Heart, 
There  must  be  at    v.        '   •iummer, 
And  the  flute  be  i  I'd       ■'  . 


OA^  ij  daif  .',.     ,'.os« 
Walking  thr  aigii  t'. 
Hushing  all  the  hi  ivc  t-ndLUcorr 
Of  the  crickets  it.  the  grass. 


II 
u     ir 


world, 


iN  a  da  I)  (Oh,  far  from  now!) 
Earth  will  hear  this  voice  no  more; 
For  it  shall  be  with  thi/  lover 
As  with  Linus  long  ago. 


^^LL   the  happif  songs  he  wrought 
^    j^     From  remembrance  soon  must  fade, 
As  the  wash   of  silver  moonlight 
From  a  purple-dark   ravine. 


198 


m 


F^AIL  as  dew  upon  the  s^rass 
Or  the  spindrift  of  the  sea, 
Out  of  nothing  they  were  fashioned 
/Jnd  to  nothing  must  return, 

^  r  /?  K,   hut  snmcthinii  of  thy  love, 
J.    ▼      T^assion,  tenderness,   and  joii, 
Some  strange  magic  of  thy  beauty. 
Some  sweet  pathos  of  thy  tears, 

MUST  imperishahly  cling 
To  the  cadence  of  the  words. 
Like  a  spell  of  lost  enchantments 
Laid  upon  the  hearts  of  men. 

CT  f\  yiLT)  and  fleeting  as  the  notes 
\J^y    'Blown  upon  a  woodland  pipe, 
They  must  haunt  the  earth  with  gladness 
/Jnd  a   tinge  of  old  regret. 


139 


FOI^  the  transport  in  their  rhythm 
Was  the  throb  of  thy  desire, 
/Ind  thy  lyric  moods  shall  quicken 
Souls  of  lovers  yet  unborn. 


w 


\HBN  the  golden  days  arrive, 
"With  the  swallow  at  the  eaves, 
/ind  the  first  sob  of  the  south  wind 
Sighing  at  the  latch  with  spring, 


T  ONG  hereafter  shall  thy  name 
X^   ©e  recalled  through  foreign  lands, 
/ind  thou  be  a  part  of  sorrow 
When  the  Linus  songs  are  sung. 


130 


